This Fire Grows High
by el spirito
Summary: Dean wanted to be a fireman when he was little. Maybe he never stopped. Some mentions of Hell and torture.


A/N: written to fill my 'trapped between realities' space on my h/c bingo card. also, the Amazing Brothers Winchesters still aren't mine

xxxx

There are people screaming and screaming, their cries echoing in his ears, and it's his fault, all of it. The flames burn hot next to his hand and he wants to move, to escape, but he can't. The chains are too tight, the hooks too strong, and Alastair is laughing as he tries to get free. He's always been destined for this, Dean thinks. He's always been destined to burn.

xxxx

Dean wanted to be a fireman when he was little. Sometimes Sam pictures him dressed up for Halloween in a yellow plastic coat, smudges of makeup lovingly applied to look like smoke on his cheeks, but it's always overshadowed by the image of a little boy gripping a pistol in too-small hands, biting his lip in determination as he aims at a tin can thirty feet away. He wanted to be a fireman and maybe never stopped, and as Dean charges into a building lit up by flames Sam curses the little boy and tries to save the man.

xxxx

The burning has spread to engulf his entire left arm, and his chest is aching fiercely so that each breath seems to come at a horrible price. It's a new tactic for Alistair; typically, he likes to stretch the torture out for hours and days (if time can be measured as such in a place like Hell) and so burns and burns but without and smoke, starting at the toes and moving upward. The smoke inhalation, while quicker, hurts even more than the arm, and Dean wonders why Alistair's never tried it before.

xxxx

Dean is slumped over when Sam gets there. There's a badly charred form barely recognizable as what had once been a child in the corner, and Sam's heart sinks at Dean's failure; his brother will certainly blame himself and maybe never stop, another check on the list of Things That Dean Winchester Did Wrong, right after 'letting Sammy die' and 'letting Dad die for me.' Sam tucks his hands under Dean's armpits and heaves, coughing and cursing the foul smoke that hangs heavy on the air and that clogs his brother's lungs, and heads for the door.

xxxx

He's passing out. He can tell, because he's done so many times before, and that lightheaded, tingly feeling is in full force. He's never fainted in Hell though, never been granted that reprieve before. Dean's starting to think that something might be wrong when a figure appears, glowing and bright and huge and reaches out to him, and it must be Cas and this can't be right and this has happened before-

Dark.

xxxx

They take Sam off in the ambulance too, tuck a blanket around his shoulders and a mask on his face. They shove a tube down Dean's throat and crowd around his arm, but not before Sam can see it, can see the skin that looks melted and oozing. He throws up into a basin they hurriedly shove at him, then wipes his mouth on his sleeve and grips Dean's good hand.

"You're a bastard, Dean," he murmurs, thumbing the calloused skin. "You're a fucking bastard."

xxxx

Dean wakes up and the first thing he notices is that it's cold. A good cold, not the kind that Alistair uses when he's freezing his fingers and toes, but the comfortable cold that comes with air conditioners and ice cubes.

"Dean," someone says, and he knows that voice.

"Sam?" He murmurs.

"You're an idiot. And you owe me for pulling your ass out of that fire. You're listening to Death Cab for Cutie for the next month. Two months. Argue and I'll kick your ass."

"…Sam?" Dean murmurs again, because he doesn't really know what happened, and Sam's rambling is confusing.

Sam sighs.

"You don't think before you do shit," he says. "And you're a bastard."

"Oh," Dean says. "Same old, then."

Sam grits his teeth and purses his lips in a classic bitch face.

"Just shut up and get some sleep. We can talk more when you're coherent."

"Okay," Dean says, letting his eyes drift shut. Sam's still muttering about some Death-Cutie-thing, but Dean doesn't really care because this isn't Hell and Sam is real and Alistair is gone, gone, gone.

xxxx

Dean repeats that over and over again like a mantra when he wakes up on the rack, a knife slicing between his ribs and Alistair's laugh ringing in his ears.


End file.
